The Adventures of Miss Mandarin Gold: Chapter One
by frenchcookie7
Summary: Original fiction story about an unlucky globetrotter with a unique name and a hunger for all things fashion-related. Also, loves wine.


Classic.

I can smell them even before I can see them.

As I exit the bakery aisle of a small French grocery store, I am bombarded—and I mean _bombarded_ —with the sickly sweet smell of mandarins.

Ironic, isn't it, that I could despise my namesake to a level this extreme, but ever since I was a baby, mandarin oranges have been forced on me like body-image standards are forced on modern-day women (don't get me started on that one).

Just as suspected, a tall pile of the damned pungent fruits gaze up at me round the corner from a large cardboard carton of Merlot grapes. The kindly French shop assistant comes up behind me, catching my rueful gaze toward the fruit. "Mandarin oranges just in," he chirps in accented English. "Five euro a kilo." I turn towards him, suppressing my gag reflex. "Non, merci," I say, strongly refusing. I quickly pay for my baguette—look at me! Getting so French!—and hurriedly exit the store.

I feel so worldly and adult as I cross the busy intersection, across from the Eiffel tower. I am travelling Europe form my summer gap year between college and grad school. Six cities in just three weeks! This is my third day in beautiful Paris—or _Parree_ , as the citizens say—and the first city on my list. God, I look so European. I catch my own eye in a shop window and flip my hair with a sly smile. The woolen beret I picked up at the market is _so trendy_ and _so French_ …I can just imagine wearing it in the States, as unsophisticated American girls nudge each other and murmur, "That girl is a world traveler! I bet she knows all the foreign celebrities—Hugh Jackman! And…and…" My train of thought grinds to a halt. Chloe Grace Moretz is British, isn't she? I frown, pondering.

Well, nevermind. The point is, I feel my blood thickening with culture already. I pause to readjust my striped wrap top and beige capris—the quintessential French outfit (or so I'm told by a certain Vogue magazine) and bump head-on into a tall, gorgeous French _mademoiselle_. She looks almost familiar.

"Excuse moi," I say, flashing a row of dazzling American teeth, but the woman stares down on me with unfriendly eyes. Wow, is she stunning. But, I mean, why is she getting so worked up over a little collision—

Then I look down. Our 'little collision' has caused the unfortunate breakage of about half a dozen fresh eggs, which lie cracked and leaking all over what look like brand-new Christian Louboutins.

Whoops.

I stoop to wipe off the eggs, feeling my face flame, when she harshly nudges my hand out of the way. "You," she sneers, smelling ferociously of a heady mixture of mustard, cigarette smoke and Chanel no. 5. "You get out of my way immediately." She points at my baguette with a delicate manicured finger.

I gasp, taken aback at her rude attitude. What a brie-eating bitch.

"Well, I'm sorry, but that's no need for…for…"

I pause, wracking my brain for a strong SAT-worthy word. God, I'm a fashion major, aren't I? I should know some zingy vocabulary.

"No need for…such lucid…um…sanguine. You know, you should be less materialistic," I say, standing up a little straighter. "The world has larger issues than some silly…high heeled designer shoes." I finish, taking a final wistful glance at the slimy, beautiful Louboutins. That didn't sound right, but I am still half expecting her to break out into applause for my Oscar-worthy speech. Instead, her fuchsia lips curl up into the tiniest malicious smile. "Don't you know who I am?" She asks patronizingly, with the faintest hint of amusement. I gulp. Oh god—what if I just insulted the top French Mafioso's wife, and now I'll be a wanted woman all over the Europe. I'll have to disguise myself, flee the country and sneak into Russia by private jet—

God, that would be _so_ glamorous, wouldn't it. I could wear a blonde wig, and chic black velvet stole to hide my figure…I wonder if Gucci makes capes…

I am reminded of the offended French cow towering over me. Her lip is trembling with exaggerated rage.

"N-no," I stammer, tucking my baguette back under my arm. "I don't know who you are. But you should watch where you're going." With regained confidence, I begin to stalk off, imagining her shell-shocked look as I flip my beret the slightest bit. Honestly, some people. She did look quite familiar…

Suddenly, my heart stops. I spin around, eyes wide. The woman is gone, having probably snaked off into some alleyway, but I know who that was. I know who that was! That was the highest-paid supermodel in Europe, Estella Remoir! My heart is skipping. I will be able to tell all my girlfriends back at home that I personally met Estella Remoir! Estella and I could become best friends…have cappuccinos at little French cafes…call each other cute nicknames…I could get fabulous designer discounts by throwing her name around…I would tag along to her photo shoots and the cameramen would point to me and whisper, "Look, it's Estella's best friend, Mandarin Gold! Get the makeup crew, she's going on the cover of _Allure_! That smile—that grace—that Prada handbag!"

Then I remember. I didn't just meet Estella Remoir. I _insulted_ her. God, I messed that one up. Then a new thought reaches my head. What if she does an interview about me, ranting about some 'stupid, rude American' that 'sassed her on the streets'? I know for a fact that she isn't credited as the kindest of celebrities. She doesn't know my name, but I am certainly recognizable, what with the flaming red hair and all. I feel an impending sense of doom as I realize that I might never get snatched up to work with some big fashion company because of a silly mistake I made, being rude to one the of top celebs in the world!

My feet get heavy as dreams of supermodel connections and sipping low-fat lattes with Ralph Lauren dash to the ground. I could use a pick-me-up…is ten in the morning too early for a glass of wine? I duck into the nearest bar I find, fighting back the tears of defeat. I rip off my beret and chuck it into the nearest trash can.

Curse that Estella and her Christian Louboutins.

Why can't _I_ have Louboutins?


End file.
